‘Stunted intellects are rarely stung by such judgement, Father.’

‘Then let us drag them into the clearing, into the light. I am no artist. I am simply a soldier. I will call them out and challenge their defence, such as it is.’

‘You’ve not the audience,’ Renarr replied.

After a moment, Urusander sighed. ‘No. I have not.’

‘In any case,’ she continued, ‘I am less forgiving of the notion that all opinions are equally valid. Some are just plain ignorant.’

Urusander grunted. ‘Leave me now,’ he said to the servants, and watched as they hurried from the room. He faced Renarr. ‘My mind is diminished with age. I lack the verisimilitude of years past. Worse yet, my fires have ebbed. Awaiting me now, Renarr, is the desire to dispense with contemplation. Have done with the musings that so afflict the artist who sees too much, who knows too well, who would defy the rush of base appetites. A battle awaits us. Let us ride to meet it.’

She rose then, collecting her own cloak. ‘You have set your mind as well as your sword.’

Urusander paused, and then sighed. ‘No matter the outcome, this battle will be my last.’

She studied him, but said nothing.

He stood, still possessing all his airs of command, the grace of competence, while beneath all the gilt, the surficial propriety, something broken hid its swollen face.

Duty, it seems, is a harsh mistress to this man. We are invited to sympathy.

But see him march to the river of blood.

‘Will you ride at my side?’ he asked.

‘Father, from this moment on, I’ll not leave it.’

The swollen face lifted then, revealed itself to her, and she saw it clearly.

Well, that is no surprise, is it? We hide our own, each and every one of us. Bruised and beaten by injustice.

And in that child’s face, so bloated with tears, she saw hope.

Oh, how the lessons of betrayal are so quickly forgotten.

* * *

From the high wall of the keep, High Priestess Syntara had looked down upon the curled snake of Urusander’s Legion, watching how it seemed to ripple in the dawn. Steam rose from it as if the entire creature had just crawled out from the earth, mixing with the smoke from the town’s forge, where a fire had burned the building and its yard to the ground, taking with it at least four people, including the Legion’s blacksmith. Townsfolk had fought that fire through the night, finally quenching it just before dawn.

The Legion’s tail half encircled the town, but its blunt head was angled facing south. The image remained with her as she led her procession down into the courtyard, cutting through the gathered officers awaiting the arrival of Urusander.

She was not inclined to join them. While the soldiers of the Legion still turned to their commander in all things, the faith and its sacred servants did not bow to that now insufficient military structure. Until Urusander was made Father Light, he was nothing more than the leader of an army.